


Sans: The Legendary Trash Dad

by Bee_Knee



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Angry Sans, Babybones (Undertale), Child Abandonment, Dad Sans, Father Sans, Gen, Hiding A Kid, Humans Are Skeletons, Parent Sans (Undertale), Protective Sans, Sans Has Issues, Trash Dad of The Year, Underfell Grillby, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans, dumpster diving, reluctant parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 11:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14043819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bee_Knee/pseuds/Bee_Knee
Summary: Features Underfell Sans and a baby skeleton! - Sans likes to think he can handle anything that comes with a "Kill or Be Killed" world, but after discovering a baby skeleton at the Dump, he's not sure anymore. Becoming a parent wasn't exactly on his To-Do list, but he's willing to give it a shot. Besides, he managed to keep Papyrus alive! He could raise another kid, easy...right?





	1. Trasheriffic

Ahh, the Dump, San's home away from home-it was the place he spent much of his youth. Here, it was relatively safe to take a nap if you hid deep into the garbage, and sometimes you would find something to snack on if one wasn't picky. The place also helped feed San's interest in science, him finding a knack for repairing discarded electronics. And the cherry on top is that the only threats that came about tended to be temperamental teens and the occasional treasure hunter picking over junk long derived of anything fancy. Anyone with a scarily high level tended to prefer stealing or simply had the funds to buy the items they wanted rather than to stoop to scavenging.

In his element Sans began climbing a trash heap, him being light and small enough to disturb little. Sometimes he was even mistaken for a child, and so monsters tended to ignore him—being so small sucked, but hey, he embraced the perks when he could.

Once at the top of the heap, Sans began the slow process of combing things over. Anything that didn't hold his interest clambered down to the bottom, anything he liked went into his pockets: nuts n' bolts, candle wicks with a bit of wax, book pages, and even fabric scraps. After all, the expression one's trash was another's treasure was never more accurate in the Underground. During his little excavations Sans always held onto a wisp of hope that he would discover something amazing—anything that the Boss might appreciate, and thus would allow him to justify time at the Dump in the first place. Sans hadn't found anything good in a while but it was something to look forward to, he just needed a little more…persistence. Some monsters lived at the Dump and thus were always ahead of everyone else when it came to finding the good stuff. Still, no harm in hoping a little.

Eventually, the heap was depleted and so Sans moved onto the next—then the next—and the next. It was more relaxing than fruitful—having gathered only some rusty nails and tools he would toss into his workshop just for the thrill of collecting and would likely remain unused. He simply didn't have any ideas or motivation for projects like he used to.

Sans twitched, pausing as memories of his past brought down the mood. His phalanges rubbed anxiously over a piece of shiny metal, catching his reflection. Sans startled when he realized he was genuinely smiling, sharp teeth curved towards his eyes.

He stared briefly in reflection—happy to find that he could still smile, despite the apathetic mask he was conditioned to always wear. In the Underground, monsters paid special attention to expressions as it allowed strangers to figure the intentions of the other. Monsters with a malicious intent, no matter how practiced, always had a flicker of warning in their eyes before a battle, their souls brisling with level power. As for peaceful intent, catching a glance was watching eyes drain of brightness, level power leaving the soul. It was considered good luck to see that in an opponent, the idea being that the power would transfer to the victor more potently.

Sans's sockets shown with peaceful intent, his eyelights dimming. Feeling relaxed was euphoric and the metal was tossed away with an amused huff. Inspired, he chose to immerse himself fully into his work and quickly he was covered completely with grime. If he didn't move he would blend in with the surroundings, taking the appearance of a trash bag if he curled into himself—the perfect camouflage. His apathetic attitude towards his hygiene really did have perks—shame Boss didn't agree.

Plus, not even the most execution-point starved monster would attack him, probably from fear of contracting a disease as dust commonly covered the executioner. Sans, being a skeleton, simply didn't have to worry about sickness as much, though as he regarded old fractures along his arms as if it was a bizarre art piece, he was reminded sickness could strike him down. Had he been wounded, Sans wouldn't dare take a trip to the Dump. Sure, skeletons didn't have flesh, but bone wasn't immune to infection.

In the case of a bad bone, it was popped off for cleaning and Sans shivered as he recalled the occasions falling victim to the practice.

The recollection just highlighted how important his time in the Dump was—a lack of injury was a rare luxury. He didn't have to worry as much.

The mood slowly turned bitter as Sans still failed to find much. Eventually fatigued gnawed on his bones and Sans habitually shifted to sink into the comforting trash. Slowly, he sunk deeper, peaceful intention flooded Sans's system as he embraced his predicament and he lulled to sleep as the trash heap engulfed him.

It shouldn't have been surprising that when he awoke, grime covered his sockets-dripping down to splash eerily into his skull. Ever pessimistic, Sans shot up with a choked gasp and frantically wiped to clear his vision. It was times like these he praised the fact that skeletons had little to no sense of smell—and eyeballs. Taking note of his surroundings, Sans was curled up in the heart of a trash heap. Technically, he could rest as much as he wanted and despite being surrounded by the finest rancid garbage, Sans was comfortable—nobody, not even Boss would be able to find him.

Sans did just that, pushing away scrap metal and poking wires to get more comfortable. There he lay, in a trance as he finally let himself forget his worries. The Underground was a "kill or be killed" word after all. If a monster ignored their problems, or let themselves relax at the wrong moment they were dust. Sans liked to think he wasn't one of those monsters, though in truth he would have been fine with doing nothing for the rest of his life. The temptation to stay in the heap was very real, yet the fact that Boss would be looking for him urged him to start shifting through to freedom.

Sans wasn't looking at what he was tossing behind him, a bit over the whole treasuring hunting shtick for the day. At first he tried to dig up, but gravity wasn't working in his favor. He would yank an object free to push forward only to have what was behind pummel him in the face. With his luck it was only a matter of time before something heavy struck him wrong in the head, like a bowling ball. Sure, Sans was no stranger to pain but his HP had always been abysmal—why take the chance. After all, Sans didn't live as long as he did by making risky choices when avoidable.

To the side, he only dug in one direction, logic being he would eventually reach the outside.

It took a lot longer than he expected to get out. Whenever he moved the clutter in front of him, more shifted to fill the place. Of course, nothing unexpected-just annoying. In fact, so much so that it was really grating on Sans's nerves. Suddenly the encompassing garbage felt more dangerous then comforting. Instinctively he channeled his red magic to lightly engulf his body in a protective shield. Sans barreled forward and he tunneled through the trash like a worm would an apple.

Still, his magic and growing agitation about his situation didn't seem enough. If Sans were a lesser monster panicking may have been an option, only briefly considering the notion that he might die buried in a trash heap. He held in a smirk, Boss would think that would be a fitting end.

It was at times like this that Sans cursed himself for not knowing more varied magic attacks. His blasters, which would have been perfect to blast a hole in the mess, were simply too big, and summoning smaller ones would make the beam too weak, running the risk of just setting things on fire.

Of course, bone attacks were just as useless. Summoning up attacks was bound to only add to the clutter, lacking the strength necessary to push forward. In theory, the magic concentrated around his body could be more intense, explosive even, to bust out of the heap; however, Sans had too low an HP to try his luck. Plus, the waste of magic would be too substantial.

Ahh, there was teleportation—it was his best trick! Though Sans grew more bitter as he realized that the trick required a strict idea of point A and B. Sans had no idea where he was and thus didn't have a clear point A. Without knowing point A, he could easily mess up the accuracy of his landing at point B. He could go crashing into a wall, or worse—teleport inside it! That, or becoming stranded in the void…one of the deadliest places anyone could end up.

He rubbed his head in frustration, leaving huge dirty smudges. It was his one rule—to never take risks if it could be avoided-so teleporting was out. He wasn't about to slip into a reckless habit with no pay-off. Sans chuckled, he liked to think he was a bit smarter than that. Sans ended up curling in up on himself, still chuckling—fighting back a nervous fatigue. His problem wasn't even a big deal! Nothing was chasing him for EXP, he didn't have any debts to settle, or even a shift at a sentry station for the day!

Clicking his teeth in hot anger, he mulled over how a nice outing went so quickly wrong. Boy, the Universe must really like messing with him!

The chuckling grew slowly into laughter, a habit being that once he started it was hard to turn things off. Rarely did he let his guard down to even let a giggle slip out, though that was another reason why Sans liked the Dump so much.

He could cut loose and laugh a little! Its when he dared to mutter jokes that would normally earn him some enemies and the prize of a beating!

"Gee, I guess I really got myself into a sticky situation!" Sans calmed down as he regarded the grime he was still covered head to toe in, melting into a sticky residue due to the concentrated magic. He dispelled it and stretched as much as he could in the cramped spot, popping his bones in relaxation.

Sans was more than ready to settle into another nap, fatigue again winning him over; however, something stopped him, an instinct of sorts. Confused, Sans snapped to attention. It's not that he didn't feel safe, if anything being lost in the trash heap reaffirmed his idea that a monster wouldn't find him, but the laughing fit filled him with motivation he had to capitalize on.

Pushing again forward, Sans ignored any discomfort—his mind a clear slate—he was determined, perhaps.

A long time Sans spent digging—it was dumbfounding. Just how deep was he? Slowly Sans's motivation wavered. He stopped, reassessing the situation. Digging up at a slope and in one direction was the logical approach, but Sans couldn't help but feel he was missing something. Twisting around to view the tunnel, he felt oddly compelled to go back down.

A nagging buzzing was growing at the back of his skull. He recognized it as his magic, the buzzing growing more intense the longer he gazed down the tunnel. Sans grew unnerved, a conditioned paranoia that kept him alive for so long came surging back. The darkness of the tunnel became ominous, as if it held an attacker just out of sight. Sans's instincts screamed for him to flee, to dig faster—but his back was pinned to the wall, his gaze locked onto the tunnel. He had no choice but to fight.

Sans went back down the tunnel. Both hands steadied himself as he half tumbled down, back to the starting point. His skull whipped around at all sides, his back bristled as he anticipated an imagined attack.

Eventually he realized that his nerves had gotten the better of him. Sans would have smacked himself for being so silly, but he didn't, the buzzing had only grown stronger in his skull. The paranoia was justified as Sans became possessed to slide his hands along the walls of trash, as if searching for a secret compartment. That's when it hit him, he was searching for something—it was calling out to him, like a siren's song.

Unconsciously he began to dig in a new direction, his magic flaring from his sockets, spurring him on. He knew it was foolish. He wanted nothing more than to continue his original path—but he had learned long ago to never ignore his magic or the instincts that occasionally compelled his body. Sans embraced the buzzing urging him forward, digging and digging with abandon.

Inevitably the pulsing grew so strong it couldn't be contained. Sans paused, focusing. Seconds later, a sharp hissing emitted from his sockets. Then a literal blinding pain.

"Wha…fuck!?" An explosion of red clouded his vision—raw magic! And it burned like a bitch!

It was freely pouring from Sans's sockets, unrestrained as if sourced from a pipe.

His hands slapped across his sockets—a dull throbbing in his skull grew in intensity as his magic began pooling around him. Sans clawed at his face, breathing fast. He hadn't called upon his magic! He choked as he tried to suppress the flow, which only increased as he gave it more attention.

Fortunately, the pain didn't linger and Sans kept his wits about him, scanning surroundings for a culprit. The flowing magic suddenly condensed, a pair of red ropes extended from his sockets and blinded his vision. Sans gave a breathless scream, shocked as he was violently jerked forward. The ropes began to drag him, with debris clinging to his jacket and as directions of the pull changed, his skull bobbed listlessly. Suddenly, he smacked into a heavy object. Sans instinctively hugged the offending object as the ropes of magic slowly dissipated. It took several minutes for his vision to clear, yet a red mist still illuminated the area.

The object Sans had hugged was a box, cardboard and capped closed with a lid. The box was also horrifically moldy, as Sans's nasal cavity had the fortune to be pressed up against the soggy texture. The box was radiating red, overflowing with Sans's magic. He was furious, a trap no doubt! Still in a hugging position, Sans pierced claws into the disgusting box, keen on its destruction.

He'd stumbled upon some kind of magic-harvester. Raw magic was a valued commodity with the substance being popular in the production of drugs and various weapons. The box glowered like a red-hot cube, full of the stuff! All his!

Well, no magic was going to be stolen from Sans, never! He summoned up a tiny bone, pointed like a dagger. A stab to the lid ripped open the contents and he threw it behind. He bounced back, distancing himself from the box, anticipating an explosion or attack. However, nothing happened, not even the forced flaring of his magic started again.

Sans gnashed his teeth, unnerved but curiosity had him crawling back over. He held the sharpened bone over the box, ready.

He peeked inside and...oh…now he wasn't ready…not for such a damning discovery. He clenched the bone dagger tighter, hand shaking.

A bomb, yes. A cache of gold, maybe. Heck, even a box of Asgore's nudes-but this…never—a discovery like this. It just didn't make sense!

Only years of conditioning, of holding in his surprise and fear allowed Sans to do nothing. All he could do was stare, not caught in a trance from a supposed trap—no, he was just utterly dumbfounded.

His sockets had snuffed out their lights, and he hissed from his nasal cavity as air was sucked in to calm himself.

Shakily, a claw reached out to poke the contents of the box. It moved.

Inside wrapped in a bundle of dirty green fibers, was a baby skeleton. The bone dagger remained at the ready. It could easily be an illusion, a rare trap made with a cruel deviousness—perhaps buried for that very reason. Still, Sans's curiosity won out and instead the tip of a claw touched the child. It didn't disintegrate, or fade away like a hologram—it looked real, felt it too.

"N-no, f-fucken' way!"

Reassured it wasn't a trick, Sans placed his hand over the child. It was about the same size, amazing given the fact that Sans was small himself. He picked it up, gently cupping it in his hands. He held it away, still anticipating an attack, but nothing happened, so he drew it closer.

"Wow."

Gently, his claws ran over small, thin bones. The coloring was an alarming grey, speckled with green and yellow. Sans held it out again, disgusted-a little disappointed. The child was obviously sick-it smelled just like the moldy box. A claw twitched over its skull, just a little more pressure and it would dust—a mercy killing.

If it had been a rabbit, a pup, or any other sort of monster, the job would have already been done. Finding a baby in the garbage meant it was obviously unwanted-something likely being wrong with it-and Sans wasn't keen on fixing other people's problems anyway. He had enough of his own. Sans stared up, claws gripped the tiny skull—just one pinch and it would be over.

Of course, the fact the child was a skeleton, changed things. The only other skeleton besides himself in the Underground was the Boss—Papyrus. So, the kid must have come from the surface, how curious. He stared at it and it stared back, its grim expression reflected Sans's own. It looked defeated, hopeless.

Sighing, the claws drew away. He'd give it a chance.

As if aware of the given chance, it grew bold and began to wiggle around in his grasp like a maggot.

Hrm…maggot. Its bones were yellow enough and he did find it in garbage.

He'd call it maggot.

Sans was a bit startled by his decision. It had only been a few seconds and he'd already named it—sort of. Flustered, he raked his claws down his skull. The resulting grooves were oddly cathartic.

He sternly looked at the kid, sighing as he concluded that it was now his responsibility—great, just great. Sans conveniently forced the details concerning his predicament to the back of his mind.

It began wiggling back and forth, much like its namesake—it wanted to escape Sans's grasp, obviously. The maggot was looked over in more detail and Sans noted, its spine was the distinctive C-shape of an infant—which kept it firmly on its back.

"Ha kiddo, don't get yourself bent out of shape on my account."

The child continued, rocking back and forth. Not wanting it to fall, Sans brought it closer.

"Eh, what?"

It latched onto Sans's jacket and tiny hands cut into the fabric. Akin to a primate, it began to climb up. Huh, so it had more mobility than initially thought.

It stopped at Sans's neck. Sans froze, and for a fraction of a second the idea it may try to decapitate him was entertained. He couldn't help but feel a bit foolish when it chose to rest its skull against his clavicle, exhausted.

Well, that settled it. Sans was keeping the kid, sick or not—he couldn't just leave it, anyway!

Besides, leaving the place empty-handed would be a bummer.


	2. Keeping Track

Sans slowly backtracked, finding the original tunnel he'd dug to get out.

Digging the tunnel went agonizingly slow, a hand was holding the child in place, no doubt it'd fall or get hit with something if he didn't. Sans zipped open his jacket, rummaging around the inside pockets, tossing away any junk that was stored there: a scrap of hotdog, some crumpled wires, general trash—yep. He took the kid and stuffed it inside a pocket. He felt a bit bad about it as he never bothered to wash the jacket; though, if it could handle the moldy box...it would be fine.

With both hands Sans finally made progress, working double the speed as the wiggling kid in his jacket spurred him on.

Eventually he broke out of the mess, eyelights sparking in relief. He swore he would never take fresh air for granted ever again!

Sure, he didn't breath and the Dump tended to have disgustingly stale air, but anything was better than the conditions in the heap.

As he walked, he became painfully aware of the kid and he slipped a hand down the pocket to check on it. The maggot reacted instantly, nibbling Sans's carpals. It was surprising, sure, but Sans didn't pull away—it just tickled. The kid was quite the character.

Sans headed over to a secluded spot between two trash heaps, his point A for teleportation to point B in Snowdin. His eyelights dimmed in concentration as he willed himself to embrace the void. He raised his dominate left hand, burning red as he pooled his magic…but something was off…it wasn't as enthusiastic or intense. The coloring was slightly pink, signaling it was weak. The magically concentration was hard to control. His hand couldn't seemed to channel a steady flow and wisps of magic peppered into mist, breaking off into sporadic directions-energy wasted!

His raised hand became a fist, magic crackling into sparks as Sans became agitated.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

Down. Down. Up. Up. Down. Up.

The movement served to create a connection with the void, but he didn't seem to be able to break through!

"What! No. No. F-fuck. No!"

Sans waved his hand erratically-clawing the air, lacking previous finesse.

Teeth gnashed in hot anger as Sans's grin sputtered with red magic. Slowly, his entire body glowed with magic. His bones began to rattle. He couldn't touch the void.

It wasn't working! It wasn't working! Why?

Sans chocked on a howl of frustration, trying to regain his focus. He dispersed his magic, already concluding that he had depleted his usual magic reserves…

His skull grew red with a combination of embarrassment, fatigue, and anger.

Sans flicked open his jacket, glowering at the maggot all cozied up in the pocket. Recalling, the glowing red box, the maggot was clearly the cause of his little predicament.

He'd been just dandy when he arrived at the Dump!

Damn little brat! What was he going to do? Sans redirected his fury to a bulk of trash, creating an explosive mess. His anger was given physical form as literal red-hot flames flared in him palms, which he tossed about recklessly. The surrounding trash easily ignited into burning heaps. A tiny voice admonished him for attracting attention to himself and for the destruction of potential resources but he needed to do something with all the rage that rattled around inside him—it wasn't healthy to keep emotions bottled up after all. More red magic bubbled forth and a few bone attacks were summoned, which Sans tossed around to test his current limitations.

He wasn't impressed.

"RAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Ahh, the kid was crying—geezus, it sounded like it was being murdered. Great, he was getting more pissed off.

"Shut up!"

Not done, he raised his hand, waving a blaster into existence. It only materialized for a few seconds, flickering back and forth in intensity—until it disappeared entirely.

"No! Ssstars, for fuckss ssake!" Sans hissed, kicking at whatever trash was nearby, clutching his head as he came down from his tantrum high.

"RAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Okay, maybe he should calm the brat down. He reached into the pocket, gently rubbing the baby bones with a testy patience. It was an awkward affection, but it was the best the maggot was going to get.

Sans guessed that at least a few monsters were watching him after his little outburst. He just hoped that it wasn't anyone who recognized him, or would take advantage of the fact he had a kid—the noise it was making for sure gave away its existence.

Luckily, no one confronted him—must have been because of all the fire-and the delightful smell of burning garbage. Eventually, the maggot settled down. Sans stood awkwardly in a circle of fire by his own creation, waiting for it to burn out.

Exhausted, the ground looked mighty appealing to Sans. With a huff, he back-handed himself. A few more slaps to the face and Sans was back in business. Ok, teleportation back home was a no go—he'd have to go about things the old-fashioned way. Right, the old way…shit. Sans smiled sadly, the day he was having would be a memorable one—and if he played his cards right, not the last.

Sure, the Dump was relatively safe, but it was also in Waterfall territory, a region infamous for a high density of aggressive monsters. The numerous large empty caverns made for the perfect places to host tournaments, both official and amateur variations.

Sans only went to the Dump because he could teleport. It'd be hardly a nice outing if he had to travel on foot. Back when Sans was younger and hung around the Dump, the Underground was less organized and high-level monsters were rare outside of military positions. Now everyone and their grandmother had some level.

Sans regarded the exit to the Dump with stoic horror and smoke from the dying fire did little to settle his imagination.

Stalactites and stalagmites clinked together like fangs of a beast and the maul stretched into darkness. Sans shook his bones, rattling any fear away. Eyelights flickered out and angry resolve steeled his features as he entered.

He knew Waterfall. He knew the darkened paths. He wasn't a stranger to the place. A hand was kept on a wall for guidance and steps were cautious, anticipating potential traps.

All light was slowly siphoned away as Sans pressed on. Only far off bioluminescent mushrooms and the odd magical crystal offered some respite. Waterfall wasn't always so desolate. Once the caverns shimmered with mushrooms and crystals of all kinds, but the greed of monsters over the generations dwindled away at the spirit of the place. The mushrooms were manufactured into an overabundance of crude drugs. The crystals now decorated the rooms of the wealthy. The only scraps left grew from the ceilings, not worth the trouble to harvest.

In ways, the transformation of Waterfall was a blessing. Sans embraced the darkness. He needed to work with it—experience and common-sense recommended a stealthy approach. Unfortunately, snuffed out eyelights limited his vision. Going without his lights for long periods of time tended to bring on a headache—lovely. Though Sans had no ears, his hearing was his best sense next to sight—the empty hollow of his skull sucked up sound waves surprisingly well. The fact that the caverns tended to echo also was an advantage. Any sound of an aggressor led to Sans shifting route, doing anything less would be a death sentence.

However, keeping his footfalls silent in Waterfall was incredibly difficult. Slick gravel crunched underfoot and puddles of fetid water littered the walkways. Sans had to move at a snail's pace, but he didn't mind if it guaranteed living. Plus, he liked snails—they got his lazy ways.

The appearance of echo flowers always made Sans hyper-aware of his movements, taking care not to brush against one. Unlike other fauna, echo flowers thrived in Waterfall, cultivated purposely so monsters being hunted could be easily tracked and dusted—especially if they made the mistake of running. Just like Sans, any monster worth their salt took their time—needing the patience of a predator.

Eventually he came upon a collection of waterfalls, famed for which the place was named. Sans allowed himself some respite, allowing the showers to pelt the grime from his skull and he scratched at his sockets for a deep cleaning. The waterfalls generated an overpowering roar and any echo flowers that grew only enhanced the sound. The ruckus muffled Sans's movements, though it did the same to any other nearby monster.

Let without his sense of sight or hearing left Sans vulnerable, so he didn't linger.

Sans could only get so clean however. Even the water, as precious a resource as it was, ran a dirty grey. Blood and dust had long tainted the vast underground springs—newer generations of monsters would never know the taste of clean water. Only the wealthy bothered to filter. Large craters and mudbanks served as mock replacements to the once pristine waterways.

Suddenly, Sans was pelted with terrifying sounds—some sort of monster mob was running around the place, no doubt on the hunt. The mob was bound to bump into him—shit. There wasn't enough time to change route, and even if he did he'd probably get tracked down, the mob sounded dust-hungry—any monster would do. Plus, he smelled like a dumpster fire—easy to track-he'd forgotten about that.

Fortunately, Sans had been in similar situations before. His small footfalls served well as he stepped off the gravel path onto a mudbank, sinking with each step. Sans continued and the mud gave way to water, which he seamlessly melted into—only the top of his skull shown like a dirty rock.

The water was cold, froze his bones down to the marrow, so Sans had no problem remaining still. The mob passed, a flicker of fur and the faint scent of drool told Sans it was a dog pack—very lucky they hadn't smelled him.

Sans remained in the water for minutes afterwards, afraid the mob would loop back around or retrace their steps—but it never happened. Sans reversed the process, slowly crawling up the mudbank like a slug or an evolving fish. He pulled up his jacket to catch and muffle the water from his sockets. Sans began crawling on the path, at the edge of the water—much too wet to stand up without making a sound.

He started wringing his jacket out as best he could-rummaging around his pockets to salvage the contents—plus the kid..

"Ffff-ffffffffffuck."

Sans was frozen, not by cold but horror. The kid was gone from its pocket, washed away!

He stared down at the water, much too dirty to cast a reflection or to see any sign of the maggot. Sans turned away. It was too late. He stood up, confident he was dry enough to keep quiet and began again on the path—he only made it a few steps before he was seized up with shame.

His eyelights flickered on as he looked back at the water. Damn, he'd done a lot of depraved things in his life but adding, "leaving a kid to die" to the list was…it made him sick. He liked to think he was a guy with standards.

Sans's body made the decision before his mind as he plunged back into the water, the stealth-tactic be damned. Sans flooded his eyelights with magic, lighting up the gloomy water in an eerie bloody glow. Instinct took over as he reached out, frantically searching the bottom. His magic knew what to do as it condensed again into ropes, leading him to the maggot.

Sans snatched it up and burst out of the water, the cavern lit up in red. Quickly, he snuffed out his eyelights and magic, but it was too late and too alluring of a display. Echo flowers were eagerly broadcasting the ruckus. The monster mob—specifically the dog pack, was already tracking him—having started when they first heard the initial splash.

Hiding would do Sans no good, the pack was expecting him to be in the water…

So Sans ran, it was his only option. His previous knowledge of the twist and turns on the tunnels is what saved him, as he avoided running into a dead end or potential trap.

His bones were short and small-his running weak. Red magic, a touch of determination, enveloped the soles of his shoes as he ran. He wasn't going to die—the maggot wasn't going to die either-it clutched firmly by Sans's fist.

The eventual entrance to Snowdin's region did nothing to alleviate the chase. Sans's bones froze solid as he ran through the frosty air. Up ahead was a straight path lined by conifer trees and rocky rubble-to the far right was a river.

Sans recalled the fate of monsters that ran down the snowy path to Snowdin. They never made it, the path was too long and straight with no chance to deviate in direction—running in an erratic zigzag pattern became predictable if only done in a single direction—so Sans picked a different path.

He leaped into the river, having the small fortune to not smack into a frozen surface. Sans had to work against the current as the river flowed back into Waterfall. Giant ice cubes were sweep along with the current, which helped Sans with his crossing. He scrambled up the side of a cube with one hand, claws voraciously digging in. The other held the maggot up away in a death grip. Scrambling to the top, a boost of magic flung Sans across to the other side, were he disappeared into the nearby forest.


	3. Pity Friends

Sans wasn't exactly in a forest, thinking so would have been generous. Instead he was hidden in a thin patchwork of trees. The residential area of Snowdin seen at the end, so Sans discreetly melted into the town. The chill in his bones demanded he would make his way home, but he didn't want to risk running into the dog pack, or the Boss-Papyrus. He wasn't exactly in the mood to be yelled at, or to explain his soggy and trashed disposition.

And of course, explaining the kid. Sans's sockets widened with pity as he regarded the baby bones curled up around his fist—thankfully it was moving, rattling its bones from the chill, so it wasn't dead. Good enough, Sans placed the maggot in his right front pocket, leaving his hand in to make sure the kid stayed quiet and a tiny bit warm as he gentle charged his magic.

Instead of his house, Sans went to the next best thing: Grillby's. The place was warm, a feeling Sans would never take for granted again. He spied an empty booth in the corner and was tempted to flop onto one for a nap—but he could never do that, it would have been suspicious, so Sans made his way to his usual spot at the bar. Immediately he hunched over the counter, as if he was already drunk—which he would have loved to do, but the squirming maggot in his pocket demanded a weird sobriety.

Grillby, a fire elemental with cool blue fire, crackled in annoyance as he regarded the water Sans had brought in.

He loomed over Sans as he awaited an order. Sans peered up timidly from the crook of an arm, wanting to bask in the warmth of the bartender for as long as possible.

"Hey, Grillby."

Sans stood up straight, correcting his posture. Grillby expected nothing short of good manners in his bar and Sans wasn't about to give a reason from him to get kicked out. Coming into the bar all wet and smelly defiantly lost him some points.

"I'll have the usual—please. A burg with fries, along with a bottle of mustard."

Payment was upfront so Sans rummaged around his pockets for the corresponding gold—and, oh no—yep, he'd lost his chump change from either the delightful pool party at Waterfall or the panicked dip into Snowdin's lovely local river. Regardless, Sans was fresh out of luck.

Grillby stared down at him and his arms crossed. Sans felt the stares of other patrons on his back, no doubt thinking him a fool. Just an inkling whiff of not having any gold got one kicked out.

Fortunately, Sans was a regular at the bar, so Grillby gave him some leniency with his...antics.

Sans meekly looked up, "I will go ahead and use my tab for the day. Hope that's not any inconvenience."

Grillby didn't answer for a while, considering the idea. "Alright Sans, I may have something for you today." Grillby then reached out with his right hand. "The usual terms of the deal, correct?"

Oh dear, Sans's right hand was occupied with trapping the brat, keenly keeping it from wiggling. Sans had to awkwardly reached out with his left to shake on it, twisting his carpals which caused a strange popping sound.

He hoped to Asgore's hairy balls that no one saw how odd that was. Sans caught a glimpse of smoke coming off from Grillby as he walked away to fulfill the order—was he pissed? Suspicious? Or both?

Sans stared dejectedly at the counter. He was melting, mentally and physically as the chill in his bones left to make a puddle beneath him.

Grillby for sure wouldn't appreciate the mess, nor had he seemed keen on the deal. Sans himself regretted making a deal, it added a whole element of stress he'd have to deal with. He shouldn't have come to Grillby's-but when Sans's meal arrived hot and delicious, he couldn't regret a thing.

Running from death sure worked up an appetite!

Sans ate and drank only with one hand, no doubt making Grillby more suspicious. The meal also lasted longer than normal, as Sans ate fries one at a time. nibbling each as he savored the warmth—no doubt being a bit annoying as Grillby seemed keen on him leaving.

Through it all, Sans would never take another warm meal for granted. He was sure he'd almost died that day.

Finally it was done and Sans swiveled out of the stool to barrel outside before he lost his nerve to face the cold again. To make good on the deal, Grillby was waiting for him in the back. He passed Sans a tiny package—again awkwardly using one hand. Knowing the drill, Sans pocketed it and went on his way.

Suddenly, a hand pulled him backwards—intensely warm—Grillby.

"Fuck, Grillbz! W-what is it!?"

Spooked, Sans back peddled and Grillby cocked his head, amused.

"Sans it's imperative the package is delivered immediately. I would not have agreed to a deal otherwise."

Sans nodded, but fixed Grillby with a dirty look—fortunately, manners were only expected inside the bar. Grillby was lucky he didn't get a bone shoved up his flames for scaring him like that!

"Got it Grillbz, I'll…get on it."

The hand didn't pull away, but instead another grabbed Sans's pocketed arm!

Grillby's flames crackled with unspoken questions.

Sans didn't say anything. His voice would have cracked nervously if he had.

Shit, what did Grillby suspect? No way he could have seen the kid!

Grillby then let Sans go, giving him a rough shove forward.

"And Sans, bring gold next time."

Damn, the universe sure liked to throw him curve balls! If the day continued like the mess it was, Sans was going to snap a rib from all the stress!

Despite every ache in his bones screaming at him to turn around and go home—to get cozy with the mattress, Sans was walking in the opposite direction. Deals with Grillby were serious shit and Sans was more than sure one of Grillby's lackeys was sent to spy on him, hidden among the trees.

A quick glance at the package told Sans the delivery point, shown by a few discreet scratches on the surface—a secret code for a secret box.

Luckily, the point wasn't far at all and Sans suspected Grillby may have made a deal out of pity. The place was Doggo's sentry station and Sans approached slowly, calling out to not spook the occupant.

"Hey Doggo, it's me Sans—I'm coming up to chat."

To his understanding, Doggo had blindsight. The dog could see, but not colors or detail—just shadows—poor bastard. Sans could admit to some respect for Doggo. Living in the Underground for so long with that disability was impressive.

"Sans, just keep moving. Yes do come."

Doggo peeked up slowly from the station counter, almost snake-like. His ears pricked high on his head and he stood straight up, looming over Sans. Of course, everyone loomed over Sans.

"Got something for yah." Sans pushed over the package and Doggo swiped it over the counter.

Immediately, Doggo grew excited and began to unwrap the package.

Uh, that was odd and Sans took a few steps back—usually the contents were meant to stay hidden.

Sans almost dropped his jaw when he saw what Doggo pulled out.

It was a greasy paper bag from Grillby's and Doggo teared into the goods with abandon.

Holy shit, Grillby had been taking pity on him! He'd just needed to deliver Doggo's lunch.

Sans rubbed his face in frustration. Oh, for sure he was relieved that was all he had to do, but the fact Grillby had pitied him irked him slightly. He didn't want it-no, he didn't need it! Dealing in pity made a monster a target, simple as that.

"Sans, Sans move—come here, come come." Doggo excitedly waved Sans forward, a greasy paw outstretched.

"Eurgh, what?"

Sans took Doggo's paw and was given a dog-treat, perfect for a smoke.

He twirled it around, looking for any signs of tampering but all looked good—a genuine gift then.

"Thanks Doggo. This will be quite the treat for later."

Doggo nodded in agreement, "Yes, Can't beat a treat. And delivery is nice! Though…" Doggo paused, sniffing the air.

"The monster kid gives the delivery always. Did not come today."

"Ahh, I see. Wonder why—I'll keep a socket out for the brat." Doggo wagged his tail, appreciative. He persisted in sniffing the air, however—looking disturbed.  
"It was nice for Sans to come. But going now is good."

Sans got the message and quickly spun around—intent on walking home—though of course the universe loved its curve balls. Just as he was re-entering Snowdin, the Boss stepped out to meet him, blocking the path.

"Sans, you sorry bag of bones! Where the pits have you been?!"

Suddenly, he became acutely aware of his appearance. Sans stood up straight and pocketed his other hand at an attempt of looking casual.

Boss's eyelights flashed angrily, looking Sans over erratically.

The pocketed hand holding the maggot felt heavy, shaky even. He couldn't let the Boss know about the maggot, not yet. The guy looked too pissed to be reasoned with.

"Oh, h-hey Boss! I was at the...the Dump like I said this morning! I was just heading on home now." Sans hadn't lied, but he sure didn't come off as sounding truthful. Being buried in garbage and having two impromptu swims left him vulnerable and he simply couldn't muster his usual confidence.

Boss had a knack for getting a read on people and was more than likely going to catch on that something was wrong, so Sans would have to do some classic-misdirection. Fortunately, he knew just how to mess with his brother.

Thanking again Doggo's generosity, Sans pulled out the dog-treat and made a big show of lighting it with a flick of his magic. The smoking treat settled nicely between Sans's teeth and Papyrus gaped at the display—the audacity!

It was no surprise when Papyrus smacked Sans upside the head—he was sure his teeth loosened just a smidge. The treat flew into the snow, though it was far from over. Papyrus proceeded to stomp repeatedly onto the treat. Nothing but crumbs were left under his boot—victory!

As memorizing as the overkill was, Sans had to get on home—his mattress at the forefront of his mind.

He began walking again Sans instinctively tensed and puffed up his jacket, already feel the Boss's glare threaten to snap his spine in two. His hands felt clammy as fatigue settled over him. Sans felt smaller and in turn, the maggot felt even smaller in his shaking hand. Huh, Sans noted the maggot hadn't been wiggling as much…in fact it hadn't bothered his hand a bit—shit, was it dead? It just might've been…it hadn't been in the best of shape when he stuffed it in the pocket. Shit. Shit. Shit.

He stopped walking as he seriously entertained the idea and stared down at the snow. He should have gone home earlier—skipped Grillby's entirely...the kid was dead.

Of course, Papyrus caught up to him. He wouldn't be a good Boss if he just let Sans go.

"Get back here! Walking off is not acceptable behavior! Sans!" Papyrus stomped up to Sans, who didn't meet his gaze, still staring down at the snow. It was dead. It was dead. Damn.

Not an authority to be ignored, Papyrus grabbed Sans's arm and pulled—the one that was holding the kid! Sans snapped to attention! He snarled and with his free hand tried to hook his claws into Papyrus's sockets. Not expecting such a feral and frankly, ridiculous reaction Papyrus released his hold, stepping back.

Sans teleported a few seconds later.


	4. Grubby Bonds

Man, his skull didn't house a brain but that was no excuse for being stupid. By some miracle and mercy of the universe, San had managed to teleport into his room. The teleportation had been automatic, a conditioned response for when he felt threatened.

Sans had been sure his magic reserves were too low to perform such a maneuver—yet it looks like he'd underestimated himself.

Neat, he wasn't complaining none.

Shame he had landed into his trash tornado, spinning around a few revolutions before being flung into a wall. Yep, pretty sure that added a crack or two to his skull. Sans laid on the floor for a moment, allowing himself a few precious seconds of rest...before he remembered.

The kid!

Shit—Sans really was a shit parent! He pulled it out of the pocket, sighing in relief when it moved—it wasn't dead! Yet. Fuck, there was nothing to celebrate.

It kid looked awful—worse than when he'd found it. The tiny bones were a deep grey and it rattled with a cold sweat. It appeared it never completely dried off from the dunk in the water and the chill of Snowdin's air no doubt froze it solid.

Sans figured being in his pocket and rubbing it with some magic would be enough, but apparently not. Quickly Sans unraveled his bed-sheets, which had been previously crumpled into a ball. Papyrus had always japed that Sans was akin to a dung beetle, rolling up his brown dirty sheets into a giant ball. Sans could see the resemblance and couldn't disagree. It was nice when the Boss made use of his funny bones.

As dirty as the sheets were, Sans wrapped up the kid in them—making it resemble a bean-or a piece of shit if one was vulgar. Yikes.

Suddenly, the front door slammed open—Papyrus was home and oh boy was Sans in for it!

No funny bones to be tossed around this time.

Sans locked his bedroom door and allowed himself a few blissful seconds to rest his sockets, sitting on his mattress. He tried to remember what peace felt like before he scrambled out the bedroom window.

Fortunately, it wasn't Sans's first time jumping out of a window—he was a secret pro actually. He didn't land on the snow, not wanting to leave tracks. Instead he hooked claws into the wooden exterior of the house—the wall already long littered with past marks.

Slowly, Sans clawed along to his secret workshop, which was conveniently at the back of the house. The door was all boarded up, done in a manner that made it look like a half-assed repair to a hole in the house rather than being an entrance. Lucky, Sans small size came in handy as he scrambled between the boards relatively easy. Between the boards was a hidden door, locked of course.

Thankfully, he always had the key on him just for occasions like so. The lock opened with a click and closed with an equally satisfying click as Sans collapsed inside the workshop.

Cold dirty tiles had never been more welcoming. Sans rolled onto his back and set the maggot on his chest to assess the situation. He cringed when the kid practically rolled off him. Its little hands didn't have the strength to grip his jacket like before.

His sockets burned with magic, the beginning of tears condensing in the corners.

He wasn't sad. He didn't even know the kid. No. No! He was just...a little frustrated is all!

A large part of him had already accepted the fact that it was dead. It wasn't, but close.

And it was all because of Sans's messed up idea of priorities. The fact the maggot wasn't crying was also pretty alarming—kids cried when they needed something, right?

This one looked like it needed everything, but didn't say a peep.

Sans slapped himself a few times, to stay awake and to focus. Fortunately, Sans tended to produce his best work under pressure and a plan had quickly settled into action.

He cupped the kid carefully in his hands, summoning up a mist of magic. Like before, the kid began to absorb the energy. It first glowed a faint pink and then an intense red. It looked like it was made out of molten hot metal, though the bones were only lukewarm at most.

Pumping the kid full of magic was all he could do—it would have to find the will to survive on its own. When the maggot began to wiggle again only then did Sans allow himself to slink into a deep sleep.

He clutched the baby bones tight against his chest.

Sans resolved to do his best.

The workshop was freezing, having little to no insulation, and the air was disgustingly dusty; but it was the best, safest place in the Underground. Sans laid on his side, sockets black with sleep. His hands stretched limply outwards. Having survived, the maggot was on a hand, clutching a phalanx bone and nibbling at the distal end. Only having instinct as a guide it persisted in chewing, finding comfort in the familiar scent and texture. It desperately wanted to go back in the pocket, it was so cold—but didn't know how. So it chewed harder, and harder!

Crack.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

It squeaked. The tiny spine arched in fear. The hand awoke—like a white spider the hand snatched the maggot into a jarring grasp. Naturally it wiggled, no longer liking the scent or texture. Its sight spun around, catching glimpses of two red orbs hovering above, bathing it in a bloody light that wasn't nice.

It did the only thing it could.

Hissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.

Sans snapped out of any musings. What the fuck was that!?

The little maggot was having a fit, it sputtered and hissed in his fist—like a god-damned snake!

Sans was dumbfounded; well, the hissing was new, and a bit scary. If he didn't know the sound came from a baby bones an attack would have been readied.

Hissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.

Sans sockets slowly looked over the child, his smile tense. The phalanx twitched and the maggot stopped hissing, drawn back. It began nipping at it like a pup.

"Well good morning to you to, grub-face!" Sans gave it a light flick to the skull and it scrambled away, turning its attention to the dirty bedsheets it had slept in.

Sans flexed his hands, the chill made everything numb and he looked them over to see if any bone was missing.

Turned out the little bugger had managed to chewed the tip of a claw off and a nasty crack remained. It stung but served as a nice distraction-a sudden burning pain assaulted his bones as Sans fully awoke. He could hardly move, struggling to sit up—it was like he was glued to the floor. The cold tile of his workshop had turned into a bed of ice and his bones felt like they'd been buried in permafrost for a millennia.

That's right…Sans never had the chance to properly dry off and was paying for it. All his clothes had been soaked to the bone, but instead of evaporating, the water froze during his nap—so Sans was stiff as a board.

Every moment he made created the sharp snap of ice and he had no choice but to remove his jacket—thin sheets flaking off it.

The shorts were the same but he kept them on—sitting on the cold tile bare-boned would have been worse. Plus, resorting to being naked would have been a blow to his personal pride.

Crack.

Okay, that was his finger again. Enough fun for the maggot.

Eyeing the maggot Sans flicked it again in the skull. No, that was bad behavior! The maggot rolled onto its back and it again lacked mobility.

Hisssss.

Its C-shaped spine kept it rooted in place—it was a roach caught on its back. Its tiny claws reached out to the air, attempting intimation or sought to grab onto something. Sans had to admit that it was very endearing.

He watched in fascination as its claws eventually found purchase on the bed-sheets. Slowly, it lifted itself from its back and fell forward.

Sans chuckled and a pinch of pride welled up inside for the little guy.

The maggot's bones rattled—right, the cold!

Sans cradled and swaddled the baby bones once more, but the hissing hadn't let up.

Hisssss.

Damn, what a creepy n' cute little bastard!

With little warning, it sprung from the sheets like a nut popped from a shell. The maggot seemed keen on acting on its hissing fit and it grabbed onto San's bare ribcage. Its legs dangled uselessly but its grip was tight—angry

"The hell kid?! Let go!"

The maggot's grasp was uncomfortable on his bare bone. Unconsciously, his magic flared.

His soul palpitated in his ribcage and his marrow ran cold—not liking the maggot in such close proximity.

Sans grabbed at the brat, pulling; but, both its hands were hooked firmly around his ribs. With patience Sans never knew he had, he pried it loose and regarded it with some disdain.

He held the kid away from him, still not fully believing what he had discovered. He hadn't found a stash of gold, or some fancy surface trinkets—no, he found a fricken' baby bones!

It wasn't a stray puppy, it wasn't some sentient fungus, or a ghost!

Nope, the universe gave him a fellow skeleton!

While Sans was mentally distracted, the maggot began to climb up the ribs as if it was a set of monkey-bars.

When it reached his clavicle, Sans expected it to rest its head like before; but, it didn't. It swiveled it skull and sniffed the air, looking for something.

Sans hoovered his hands around it, afraid it would fall.

Then the maggot did something crazy!

Creak!

The maggot twisted headfirst and buried into his collarbone—pushing its way down into his ribcage like some kind of parasite!

"Ahhhhh-hell!" A hand smacked down to where the maggot had been—as if it had been a mosquito set on sucking his marrow.

It hurt. Oh stars the burrowing had hurt! The maggot had fractured the site just slightly.

His claws scratched at his collarbone and some marrow came back.

Sans never did have dense bones. That was more the Boss's forte.

The maggot hung inside the ribcage now, inches from the white core of his soul.

San stiffed and readied his hands to snatch the kid out at any sign of aggression.

He wasn't about to underestimate an attack from such an angry and hissy little enemy.

Surprisingly, the maggot settled down, looking mighty comfy so close to his soul. It reached out a tiny hand and touched the core.

Instantly, Sans felt a connection! His breath hitched and his eyelights went cross-eyed.

The sensation was so foreign, so strange—he couldn't even begin to describe it!

It wasn't painful, not even uncomfortable! But the result wasn't anything he would welcome.

The maggot's touch had brought on a spark of magic and warmth imbued his bones. Sans was sitting up on his knees, his arms stuck out to the sides as a weird sensation intensified in his soul.

The maggot reached out with its other hand, letting go. It didn't fall but instead floated around the pulse of the core.

Kreeeee..!

The noise was so small, Sans almost missed it.

Kre kre kre.

The baby bones had forgone its previous hissing for what Sans could only interpret as little sounds of joy.

Kre kre kre!

A genuine smile stretched onto Sans's normally tense grin. His eyelights shown brighter and whiter as he relaxed.

He awkwardly hugged his ribcage as the kid floated inside. He wanted to cuddle and to hold the maggot, but didn't dare interrupt…whatever the hell was happening!?

As weird as the set up was it felt completely right. His instincts gave only positive signals and Sans slowly began to chuckle as any absurdity about the situation was realized.

Eventually, the light from his soul dimmed, falling back into its original, dull glow.

Suddenly, Sans felt exhausted and he fell forward, catching himself with his hands.

His vision grew blurry. Dribbles of magic charged sweat and drool condensed.

With a thud, Sans was pulled back asleep.


End file.
